The Success of Romantic Endeavors
by OwlinAMinor
Summary: Benvolio thought it would be just a normal night at the tavern, sitting, unnoticed, in a corner and watching Tybalt Capulet command the attention of everyone in a mile radius. He was wrong. So wrong. Christmas present for my friend Kayla. Tybalt/Benvolio. Oneshot. Smut.


**Title: The Success of Romantic Endeavors**

**Pairings: Tybalt/Benvolio, and some one-sided Mercutio/Romeo**

**Genre: SMUT**

**Summary: Benvolio thought it would be just a normal night at the tavern, sitting, unnoticed, in a corner and watching Tybalt Capulet command the attention of everyone in a mile radius. He was wrong. So wrong. Christmas present for my friend Kayla.**

**Length: oneshot**

**Dissing of the Claims: I AM NOT SHAKESPEARE, AND SHAKESPEARE IS NOT ME. For starters, I'm still alive, and he isn't ...**

**A/N: The eighth Christmas present fanfic I'm posting. (I wrote all of my friends these fanfics for Christmas because I'm broke.) And, I just realized, the first lemon I'm posting on FFnet. Well, that's just lovely. Yay for milestones. Enjoy. :)**

* * *

"BENVOLIOOOOO!"

It was a Friday evening in the lovely city of Verona, and all I really wanted to do was stay inside and read, then maybe go to bed early so that I could get up before dawn for a walk along the river.

But I had friends with other ideas.

Or, more specifically, one friend: Mercutio.

"BEN-VOOOOOOO-LIOOO!" he called again from beneath my bedroom window, shaking his half-empty bottle at me, already slightly drunk.

I could have let him believe I was out, and gotten my nice, quiet evening, but common courtesy dictated otherwise, and, besides, he _was_ my friend (though sometimes I wondered why.)

"What is it, Mercutio?" I yelled back.

"COME FORTH AND BE MERRY, MY GOOD COMRADE! THE NIGHT IS YOUNG, AND THE TAVERN IS FULL!" he shouted enthusiastically, doing a little pirouette for emphasis.

… More than slightly drunk, then …

"Must I?" I asked. "The tavern is not the place for me, tonight. And besides, the wenches look upon me the way they look upon cattle dung."

"THAT IS TRUE, MY UNFORTUNATE COMRADE, BUT IT IS ALSO TRUE THAT WENCHES ARE NOT THE COMPANY YOU DESIRE IN YOUR BED," Mercutio countered, winking.

"That is not … I mean … It most definitely is not … Oi, tell it to the whole word, would you?" I said, flushing with embarrassment.

"A MAGNIFICENT SUGGESTION! WORLD, PERK UP YOUR EARS, FOR I BRING YOU TIDINGS OF GREAT JOY! BENVOLIO MONTAGUE DOES NOT DESIRE WENCHES IN HIS BED!"

… Okay, now I _had_ to go. If he was too drunk to understand sarcasm, he was liable to kill himself without me there to stop him.

**~IT IS THE EAST, AND THIS BREAK THE SUN~**

The tavern was its usual self: foul in appearance, sound, and smell, filled with the most disreputable of company, from the maids to the men to the drinking songs, and the purveyor of the worst drink in all of Italy. And yet, for some reason unknown to me, every Veronan under the age of thirty called this place a second home.

I rested my legs in a corner, unnoticed and unwanted, and watched the general goings-on with little interest. It was all the same, honestly – men making shaky attempts at flirting, some of them only because they had already consumed more than their fare share of drink; only the most handsome and rich of them succeeding; the winners leading their prizes into spare rooms, where they had a thousand more chances to lose their nerve and their winnings before the night was over; the losers nursing their sorrows with yet more drink. My cousin, Romeo, was among their number tonight, sulking because his fair Rosalind had yet to show her face. Mercutio sat with him, attempting to raise his spirits with jesting and compliments, but to no avail. What, honestly, is the point of it all, I wondered. Why do we try so hard, only to fall flat on our faces – in love, and in everything else in life?

My musings were interrupted – as all other proceedings in the tavern were interrupted – by the arrival of one Tybalt Capulet. The man was a member of the disreputable line I had learned to hate since birth, and even if he had not been, I would have loathed him for his quick temper and the too-easy way he treated women, but I could not help admiring him. He had such a royal presence about him, a loud, brash, arrogant manner that demanded attention wherever it went. Mercutio poked fun at him, calling him a cat, but I thought he was more of a lion – brave and stupid, and thinking himself completely infallible.

Most men either worshipped or resented him, and most women loved him. I cannot fathom the reason for this, as he dropped them more quickly than a quick-tempered king drops his advisors, but something about his confident, manly manner attracted them. And, I suppose, his looks played a role, as well; he certainly looked like a prince, with his perfectly tousled blond hair, piercing blue eyes, and well-chiseled body.

I was watching as he seduced yet another innocent maiden, when Mercutio, even more drunk, fell in beside me, his hand on my shoulder.

"You admire that Capulet, don't you?" he asked slyly.

"Ah …" That was strange – I could not find the words to say that I hated him. "And what of your Romeo?" I inquired, changing the subject. "Has he abandoned us, this fine evening?"

"Alas," Mercutio sighed, "he has gone to seek out his Rosalind. May he be as unsuccessful in that, as in all of his previous romantic endeavors." My friend held up his goblet, then downed its remaining contents (which were few), as though in a toast.

"And I certainly do not admire that Capulet," I told him, finally finding the words.

Mercutio laughed, brazenly drunk. "And I certainly do not admire fair Romeo," he replied. "Do not lie to me, my friend," he added, more quietly. "I have seen how you watch him, as though he is your personal sun. Go, go seek him out. You may not be as hopeless as you think."

He clapped me on the shoulder, then went off to search for more drink.

He was wrong, of course – there was no way, in Heaven, on Earth, or below, that I desired Tybalt Capulet, of all people. What was there to desire in him? Certainly not his loud, life-enjoying laugh … Or the confident way he carried himself … Or his picture-perfect features … Or his wonderful smile … No, none of that.

As though to convince myself that I _did not desire Tybalt_, I went up to a maiden, and attempted to flirt. Now, I cannot say that I recall a single detail about her, other than that she was pretty, far too pretty for the likes of me, and a little bit drunk.

She was kind, and giggled at my poor excuses for jests – although that may have been simply the drink giggling – and I was wondering why I had no wish to bring her to bed, when a loud roar was audible from the other side of the tavern.

Tybalt had gotten himself into a brawl. Of course.

This time, it was with some older fellow, larger but not in as good shape, who had evidently insulted the Capulet name.

The rest of the tavern-goers immediately vacated their posts to crowd around the two brawlers, chanting for their favorites and chanting for a good fight.

Most of them (Tybalt included) were too intoxicated to notice the knife in the hand of his opposer.

I cannot fathom what came over me, then – all I remember is that, one moment, I was standing near the back corner of the tavern, and the next, I was darting through the ring of spectators toward Tybalt, with only one thought in my head: that I must protect him.

It was stupid, upon recollection, so stupid – why did I believe that I, scrawny little Benvolio, could protect him, massive Tybalt?

But at the time, I was not thinking, I was not feeling, I was only acting. And my actions brought me to step into the ring as though I belonged there, to knock the knife out of the villain's hand, to grab Tybalt by the collar and sternly inform him that it was about time he vacated the premises, to make sure that he followed my order by dragging him out of the tavern behind me.

And then, suddenly, a haze cleared from my vision, and I found myself in an alley a block or two from the tavern, the hand of an extremely drunk Tybalt clutched in my own like a lifeline.

"O-oh," I stuttered, dropping it in surprise (and, strangely, not disgust.)

Tybalt looked at me with these _eyes_ that should have belonged to a newborn puppy, and I understood how he was able to string women along for such a lengthy span of time.

"I like your hand," he announced. "Your hand is warm and nice. I want it back."

I … well, I could not resist those eyes. I gave it back to him, and then stood there, woodenly, attempting to think of a way I could get myself out of this situation without needing a vast supply of handkerchiefs when I returned home.

"I like _you_," Tybalt continued. "You are warm and nice, and you may have saved my life. I cannot think of many people who would have saved my life. Tell me your name."

"Ben … Benvolio," I whispered – then, too late, realized that I should have given a fake name, because I was a Montague, and he was a Capulet.

"Ben … Benvo … Benvol … Benvy. You are Benvy," he decided. "Benvy, I really should take this opportunity to thank you properly."

He moved closer to me, closer and closer and closer, until he was pressing me against a wall, me completely powerless to stop him, him completely capable of noticing the small tent growing in my trousers.

"No!" I almost shouted, finding my voice at last.

"What?" He retreated a little, looking at me with those eyes again.

"Sorry, I … I just … I'm not worthy."

Wait. That was _not_ how that was supposed to come out.

But, evidently, it was how he wanted it to come out, because he grinned and came even closer. "You _are_ worthy, you silly creature," he replied softly. "I have noticed you noticing me, from your small, dark corner, and I have noticed how you treat the people who come near you – much kinder than I treat the people who come near me. You are kind and nice, and I _want_," he said more forcefully, his mouth at my ear, "to _thank_ you _properly_."

Time hung there, for a few seconds, suspended, as I tried to comprehend this new information – but eventually, I decided that it was better to just give the man what he wanted.

"Alright," I breathed, and not a moment later, he was licking his approval into my mouth, and my brain promptly lost all capacity to function.

I let my instincts take over and kissed back, hard and wet, the way one can never kiss a lady, and entwined my fingers into his lovely golden hair, twisting and tugging the strands until he gasped. I whined a little in protest as he dis-attached himself from my mouth, then moaned in pleasure as his mouth started to mark my cheekbones, my collarbone, my neck, all of me that he could reach with my shirt still on.

I tried to help Tybalt out, undoing buttons as quickly as my fumbling fingers could manage until my entire chest was open to exploration. He took interest in my nipples, fondling them with his teeth and doing some sort of swirly thing with his tongue that had me gasping for breath. He licked his way back up to my mouth, using one hand to pin my arms above my head and the other to hold my face steady while he bit down, hard, on my lower lip – hard enough to make me see stars.

No part of my face was safe from his travels – his tongue tickled my nose, traced my chin, and moisturized my earlobes, a sensation that I found surprisingly erotic. He pressed even closer to me (something I had not previously thought possible), as though using the wall to make him and me into one person, all the better to play with my hair, dive into my mouth, and drive my cock mad.

I knew why he was so good at this, knew that he had done this with more women than I had ever talked to in my life, and somehow, that made it even more amazing – I let myself imagine that he rarely went after men, and the ones he did go after were something truly special.

Because there, in Tybalt's iron-fisted grasp, I felt truly special, for the first time in my life. He had wanted to thank me, because I was kind and nice – and he was drunk when he said it, drunk and whiny and brave and honest, so it must be true.

I wanted to thank him in my own way, show him how much I appreciated and enjoyed this, so I pulled at my trousers until they relented and gave way, then my breeches, then my undergarments. I used this newfound freedom down below to press in even closer to him, letting my naked, pulsing cock rub against his sheathed one.

He took this as a signal to drop down to his knees before me – _Tybalt Capulet_, on his knees before _me_ – and tentatively take my cock into his mouth, running his tongue up and down its length, as though getting a feel for it. The groan I gave at this must have been enough to encourage him, so he closed his mouth around the first couple of inches, doing that swirly thing with his tongue again, only with even more fervor, and driving me even more mad.

Both of us had been silent, up until then, but at this point, I could not hold it in any longer; "_fuck_"s and "_yes, please_"s and "_no keep going_"s and "_Tybalt you arse you're too good at this_"s poured out of me like water out of a heavy rain cloud.

It wasn't too long before I had convinced Tybalt to swallow my entire cock – and then I lost it, finally reaching the climax I'd been holding out on as long as possible, come spewing out of me and into his mouth. I stood there, dazed and panting, for a minute while he lightly traced my chest with his fingers, then recovered enough to help him deal with his own erection.

"That was … The best reward I could have asked for," I gasped out, once he was done.

He grinned at me, a cheeky grin that almost made me hard again, and asked, "Would you like to come to my place and continue it?"

**~A POX ON BOTH YOUR BREAKS~**

Sunlight was streaming in from the window, almost blinding me with its brightness.

Bugger, I had gotten drunk with Mercutio the night before and staggered home, had I not …?

But wait …

This was not my bed.

And this was not my arm.

And this was not my face.

And this was …

The events of the previous night came back to me, all in a rush, with the sight of a satisfied smirk on the face of the man who had given me cause to scream and moan and groan and laugh, with his magical hands and his magical mouth.

The man who went through women faster than a young boy goes through pants.

Sneaking out would be the best option, surely – that way I would save myself the humiliation of rejection later.

But as I climbed out of bed in search of my clothes, or any clothes that might fit me (as I had a sneaking suspicion I had left mine in that alley), a hand reached up, grabbed me, and pulled me back in.

"You are not getting away from me that easily," a gravely, weary-but-happy voice said.

I turned to stare at Tybalt in disbelief. "But I … I thought …"

"You thought wrong. It takes much more than what I drank last night for me to get intoxicated, Benvolio Montague, and I meant every word I said. Now, for the love of God, _come here_."

**~THE TALE OF TYBALT AND HIS BENVOLIO~**

"So, Benvolio, my good friend," Mercutio asked me, that afternoon, "were you successful in your romantic endeavors, this past night?"

I grinned. "Successful doesn't even _begin_ to cover it."


End file.
